


Birds Gotta Fly

by nlogax



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26359645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlogax/pseuds/nlogax
Summary: “Hey,” Ryan says, and it’s quiet enough for Brent and Spencer not to hear. He leans closer to Brendon’s ear, tauntingly closer. “I know Brent has probably told you some terrible things about me, right?”
Relationships: Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Birds Gotta Fly

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2011. Archiving here for whoever wants it. Did not re-edit so I apologise for mistakes or other cringe-inducing text.

“Hey Brendon, could you take that guitar over there and make sure it’s tuned for me?” Spencer asks, slipping into his jacket with practiced agility and moving swiftly past Brendon and towards the door between the garage and his Grandmother’s house. He reaches for the knob and pauses, turning his head to the side to provoke a response.

Brendon nods, heading over towards the Fender leaning against the wall in the corner of the room. The guitar has been in this same place for the past three practices, and Brendon has had his eyes on it from the beginning. His is simply a cheap Yamaha his parents picked up for him two Christmas’ ago, nothing special or beautiful or anything. But this guitar is simply breathtaking, and his fingers have been itching to mess around with it since he first saw it. Though he tried to keep casual, he was probably sprinting towards it.

“Hey, where are you going? Practice has already started,” Brent says more than he asks. Brendon is only half-listening, the beautiful guitar in the corner only inches away from his greedy fingertips. However, his ears always remain restless for information.

“Airport,” Spencer breathes briskly as he rips open the door and shuffles through it. Over his shoulder he calls, “to pick up Ryan.” Ryan. Brendon stops walking. The name rings a bell somewhere in the back of his mind, but he can’t quite place where he’s heard it before. He wants to ask Spencer, but he’s already long gone, door swinging freely in his wake.

“Ryan?” Brendon questions, eyebrow arching inquisitively over his left eye in Brent’s direction. Brent scowls, looks down at his bass and continues his tuning exercise.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t remember me talking about him, Brendon. He’s the bossy jackass lead singer I warned you about. You know, Spencer’s best friend. The one he idolizes and probably has made a shrine of in his closet?” Brent rants; a hint of venom behind the words that Brendon vaguely remembers hearing on the walk to the very first band practice. The same tone that posed as background noise for his very first pre-practice flipout. When it all comes flooding back to him, he recalls that Ryan’s been visiting his mom for the past two weeks, which is why he hasn’t attended the practices. Brendon’s never met him before.

“Oh come on, Brent. You have to be exaggerating,” Brendon eases, a little afraid of the response. At least, he hopes Brent is just exaggerating. He likes Brent and Spencer, and an ‘arrogant self-righteous bitch’ (Brent’s words) doesn’t seem like the type of person Spencer would idolize. Not to Brendon. But then again, Brendon really doesn’t know Spencer that well, and maybe…

“Yeah well, you’ll see anyway,” Brent rolls his eyes and focuses all concentration on his bass tuning exercise. Brendon reaches forward and forgets to be excited about the Fender.

*

Fluorescent light bulbs tied to long chords dangle from the ceiling, dangerously close to their heads as Ryan pulls him (by hand, Oh God) down a narrow hallway in the back of the building. Venue, Brendon reminds himself. The first stop on their debut tour. Their first live show, ever. Their first time playing in front of an audience that wasn’t Patrick or Pete or their parents or Spencer’s Grandmother. Butterflies shyly lift their wings from somewhere deep within his stomach and no, he cannot be getting nervous. Not now. It’s too late.

“What’s going on?” Brendon asks for the fifth time since Ryan walked onto the bus with the biggest, loveliest smile on his face and grabbed his hand, leading him away from where he could hide. Since it was Ryan, though, Brendon didn’t protest or anything.

Despite the buzzing reassurance of light overhead, the hallway remains mostly dark. The bulbs that dangle from the ceiling are spaced maybe eight or ten feet apart and sheltered by thick manila domes, forcing light into tight funnels, leaving the spaces in between blanketed in shadow. Some of them are burnt out, others flicker. They pass unmarked doors, vending machines, and empty waiting room chairs that are sometimes turned on their sides, if not completely upside down. Ryan squeezes Brendon’s hand in way of reply, but doesn’t look back or stop walking. He whispers, “Shh,” again and it’s the same answer, the only answer, he’s given Brendon this entire time.

They keep walking. They leave behind more doors without nameplates. Brendon notices how every door is the same shade of yellow that probably used to be white and doesn’t know whether to be excited or to embrace the unsettling feeling blooming with the butterflies in his abdomen. He doesn’t think about it much at all before he realizes that Ryan has stopped walking and bumps right into his back. However, Ryan ignores it.

When Brendon looks up at Ryan’s face, the smile is so beautifully contagious that he smiles too. “What’s this?” he asks, feeling obliged to speak in a whisper. Two large black doors stand before them; one labeled ‘Left entrance’, the other unmarked.

“Damn,” Ryan whispers back, smile bending into a smirk. “Can’t you just be quiet for like, a few more seconds? Revel in the not knowing, Bren.”

Before Brendon can pose any more questions, Ryan reaches forward and pushes one of the doors open, motioning for Brendon to follow him inside. The door shuts behind them as they both enter the new room with a resounding bang of metal and Brendon jumps. They stand in complete darkness.

“Can you turn on a light, please? I’m really—”

“Brendon,” Ryan groans from a few feet away. Brendon sighs and folds his arms, waiting for instructions, or light. “Hey, come find me.”

“What?” Brendon asks, confused.

“Just follow my voice!” Ryan calls. He is moving further and further away. Brendon sighs again, this time a bit more dramatically.

“Are you kidding me, Ross? Turn on a light.” Brendon responds, smiling in the dark and holding his arms out in front of him like a zombie. “Keep talking!”

*

”Meow!”

“Uhm,” Brendon says flatly, entering the bus and closing the door behind himself. It’s freezing cold outside and he already feels like an ice cube, doesn’t need the cold invading his place of comfort any more than it already has. “Ryan? Are you meowing?” he calls into the empty room, feeling just a little ridiculous. There’s no sign of Ryan anywhere, it seems, until something falls near the bunks and Ryan comes dashing out into the living area/kitchenette in his plaid pajama pants, hair disheveled, as if Brendon had woken him up.

“Uh, what? Meowing? Why would I be meowing?” he asks uncertainly, voice wavering. Brendon quirks an eyebrow and notices how Ryan’s oversized grey V-neck slips low to reveal one pale, boney shoulder. Despite the awkwardly intense feeling the sight gives him, he laughs.

“I was wondering the same thing,” Brendon replies, slipping out of his coat and scarf and tossing the items carelessly onto the couch. Ryan follows the movement with big eyes and scratches the back of his head nervously. “So, where’s Spencer and Jon?” he continues, falling back onto the couch as Ryan’s eyes grow impossibly larger and more frantic watching him.

“Uh, I—”

”Meow!!!”

Brendon leaps up from the couch and looks around the room, eyes falling on Ryan suspiciously. “Ryan, what the fuck. Is there a cat in here?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest defiantly.

Ryan shakes his head vigorously. “Huh? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Of course there isn’t a cat in here. What made you ask?”

”Meow!!”

“Ryan,”

“What?!”

Something small and furry (and fast) scuttles between Brendon’s feet and he gasps, his reaction too slow to get more than a glimpse at the tiny ball of fur before it disappears into the bunk area. Ryan sprints after the creature, disappearing into the area as well.

Before Brendon recovers enough to form actual words, Ryan appears again. He’s cradling something in his arms – the something squirming and thrashing to escape – and cooing to it affectionately in attempt to calm it down.

“I knew it,” Brendon says, shoulders relaxing into admittance.

“Please don’t tell Spencer.”

“It’s a cat,” Brendon says, ignoring Ryan’s pleas. Ryan rolls his eyes.

“It’s a kitten,” he corrects, stepping out of the bunk area and into the light of the kitchenette. He scratches the fussy grey animal behind its left ear, which seems to calm it down enough to settle in his arms. Even from a few steps away, Brendon can hear the purring.

“Please,” Ryan says, calling Brendon’s attention from the feline to his face. “Please don’t tell Spencer.”

“How did it get here?” Brendon asks, incredulous to Ryan’s persistence.

“I found it,” he shrugs, smiling down at the bundle of fur. His smile grows wider when the kitten mewls softly in response. “I was walking home from practice today and she came out of nowhere and started playing with my feet. I was near a really terrible part of town. She didn’t have a collar or anything; I couldn’t just leave her there.”

“You are just too compassionate,” Brendon nods, a smirk evident on his face as he tilts his head, taking in the image of Ryan snuggling the animal tighter in triumph.

“Fuck off,” Ryan defends.

“Hey,” Brendon says, stifling laughter. “No, hey. I didn’t. I mean, can I hold her?”

Brendon reaches across the space between them and takes a step closer, but Ryan makes no move to hand over the kitten. Instead, Brendon continues to move forward and he’s standing right in front of Ryan, bending down to be eye level with the animal. He reaches down and Ryan moves his hand wordlessly to give Brendon access to the cat’s left ear, which appears to be its favorite spot to be scratched.

His voice soft, he whispers, “What’s her name?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Ryan replies, voice just as soft (if not softer) than Brendon’s. Their eyes lock as Ryan continues, “Do you, uhm. Have any ideas?”

Brendon swallows around the knot in his throat.

*

“He told me he would always need me,” Brendon says to the wall opposite his couch, and by the worried look on Spencer’s face, he can tell he’s finally perfected the dry monotone he’s always been jealous came so easily to Ryan. Spencer scratches his head and frowns, trying to penetrate Brendon’s line of sight by stepping between the couch and the wall, but Brendon looks right through him. He can tell Spencer’s getting annoyed, but he really could care less.

“He promised,” he continues, pulling his blanket over his head and tighter around himself. Spencer groans, and the sound echoes through the empty apartment. Brendon watches his foot tapping restlessly against the floor.

“Brendon, don’t pull this shit. We can’t put off recording any longer, and you know it. We’ve already wasted an hour of rented space. Get your ass up and let’s go,” Spencer orders. Brendon doesn’t uncover himself.

“What use is recording space if I can’t even. I mean, I’m not. I can’t.”

“That’s only because you haven’t tried. You’ve had three months to get over this, Bren. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?” Spencer inquires; tone a little less bitchy than before, almost sympathetic.

And the truth? No, Brendon doesn’t think it’s time to move on. As far as he’s concerned, it will never be time to move on ever again. Because when Ryan left, he took Brendon with him. All there is now is…well.

This.

Brendon scowls from under his blanket hood at the empty tub of Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream and the pile of Disney classics scattered beside him.

When Ryan left, he took the ground beneath Brendon’s feet.

Now he’s just falling, forever. And nobody’s there to catch him anymore.

Even though he promised.

Spencer sighs, running an exasperated hand through his hair. He bends down toward Brendon and lifts the edge of the blanket only a little, only enough to see Brendon’s eyes.

“I’ll be back over later. I’ll bring Chinese,” he says, and to Brendon it sounds like defeat.

And Spencer leaves.

*

For roughly forty-five minutes, Brendon tortures himself with ideas of what Ryan’s actually like. He must have envisioned over a million different scenarios, none of which turn out in his favor. Quite a few of them end with Ryan actually being an enormous mythical Cyclops of some kind that eats him. He admits that his imagination often stretches out minor situations more than need be. That doesn’t mean he isn’t afraid of the possibilities.

When he hears the sound of the door opening, he squeezes his eyes shut and turns away because hey, whoa, he’s not ready he’s not ready he’s not ready yet.

“Holy Hell, you guys will never guess what happened to me!” An unfamiliar voice shouts into the room. “So I was at my mom’s, minding my own business, when my Aunt Karen – out of nowhere, guys – blurts, ‘George, I think you’re just about due for a haircut!’ and my mom is all, ‘Karen, your daughter is training in beauty school to do hair, right? You should ask her if she can trim him up,’ and I was all, ‘But I don’t need a haircut,’ and of course, nobody listens to me. So somehow I ended up sitting in the bathtub while my cousin Judy or whatever started chopping like, giant fistfuls of my hair off. It came out totally horrible and uneven and my mom had to drive me to the barber to even it out, and now I look like one of the fucking Merry Men from Robin Hood,” the voice continues, ranting and babbling. Brent is laughing in the corner and Spencer’s trying not to. Brendon still has his eyes closed. He’s still not ready, damn it.

“Hey, don’t laugh at me! I’m already fucking—” but then the voice cuts off, and something tightens in Brendon’s stomach. He doesn’t hear footsteps, but feels a shadow on his face. Then, warm breath ghosts over his mouth and nose.

It smells sweet, like cinnamon and strawberries.

Spencer chuckles harder.

Brendon opens his eyes slowly, as if it’s a painful process. He’s met with two large, honey-colored eyes and gasps. He jumps back, the stool under him wobbling, and flails to keep from falling over. Two arms hold his shoulders in place, keeping him steady until his has his balance back. The boy in front of him smiles, head cocked in curiosity.

“Hi, who are you?” and it’s the same voice from earlier. Brendon looks the boy up and down, taking in his wire-thin frame and round face that makes him look a little harmless than a mythological Cyclops, which settles Brendon’s stomach just a little. When he doesn’t answer, Ryan looks questioningly at Spencer across the room, who is laughing a little still. “Can he talk?”

“Yeah, he’s probably just afraid you’ll like, break out your sword and chop him up or something,” Brent shrugs. Spencer barks a laugh, but quickly recovers.

“Oh, Ryan, this is Brendon. He’s the guitarist Brent was telling us about before you left. Brendon, this is Ryan, but you might also recognize him as Will Scarlet,” Spencer laughs, reaching up to examine a strand of Ryan’s hair, which is cut in a very woman’s-bob fashion, curling a little past his chin. His eyes gleam honey-brown with speckles of hazel that almost stop Brendon’s breath completely.

Ryan rolls his eyes and grunts in disapproval, but shakes off Spencer’s comment easily enough. “Oh, right, now I remember. Hi,” Ryan says, reaching out his hand to shake. Brendon takes it, notices how slender and feminine it is, and how remarkably long his fingers are compared to Brendon’s own. To himself, he thinks it doesn’t really help Ryan’s new hairstyle much. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Brendon hums dreamily in response, and then mentally slaps himself. “You too,” he mumbles instead. It sounds choked even to him.

“Hey,” Ryan says, and it’s quiet enough for Brent and Spencer not to hear. He leans closer to Brendon’s ear, tauntingly closer. “I know Brent has probably told you some terrible things about me, right?”

Brendon nods.

“I’m willing to bet you’re smart enough not to take him seriously,” Ryan says, a hint of question and warning in his voice. Brendon nods. Ryan backs up and smiles at him.

“Good, I thought so,” he turns and makes his way toward the microphone and adjusts its height. “So, what have you guys been working on while I was gone?”

That, Brendon thinks, was probably the beginning.

*

It’s late, probably somewhere around three in the morning, but it’s not like Brendon can be trusted to tell the time at this level of inebriation. Brent went home a long time ago, what seems like ages, and Spencer has gone to the kitchen to sneak in more beer. Ryan is beside him on the piano bench, repeatedly tapping out a simple melody of D-E-F-E-D. Brendon noticed that he’s been unusually quiet this practice, but he doesn’t know Ryan well; doesn’t know what to do with the information. He’s decided it’s best to let Spencer handle it and not interfere.

“Hey Brendon?” Ryan whispers. It takes Brendon a minute to hear, to notice the melody has stopped and remember his name and formulate the proper response, which he decides is “Hm?”

“Teach me how to play something,” Ryan says simply, sliding his pinky across the keys, but not pressing hard enough to make any noise.

“Like what?” Brendon asks, swallowing air.

“Like…” Ryan looks up at the ceiling, voice small and nostalgic. He’s wearing the pageboy hat that Brendon’s grown fond of, and it somehow makes him look younger; more vulnerable. And Brendon could spend forever seeing him like this. “I don’t know, something pretty.”

They switched the lights off earlier, leaving only the moon to illuminate the keys in front of them. Ryan had gone on for a while about how things were always prettier in the dark, and Brendon remembers, he does. Just not the exact words. He remembers the concept though, and he kinda-sorta remembers how it took his eyes longer than usual to adjust to the dark when Spencer got up to turn them off to shut Ryan up.

“Make a D,” Brendon whispers.

Ryan does.

“Oh, gross. That was awful,” Brendon exaggerates. He laughs lightly when Ryan elbows his side. “It’s just – more like this,” Brendon says seriously, placing his hand tentatively on top of Ryan’s to guide it into the right position. Ryan’s fingers do not stiffen.

He is not uncomfortable. Brendon shouldn’t be either.

This is not what Brendon thinks it is.

This is no big deal, really.

Brendon presses Ryan’s fingers down with his own. A perfect D chord echoes through the garage and Ryan smiles.

“Keep going,” he says. Brendon only just realizes he’s stopped.

The next few chords come to Ryan easily enough with Brendon’s hand there to guide his own. Eventually, they play through the entire song, and Ryan practices without Brendon’s hand. He forgets most of it, but something is still tugging incessantly on Brendon’s heart when he finishes.

It’s only pride. He swears.

“Does this song have words?” Ryan asks, staring down at the keys. He hasn’t look Brendon in the eyes all night. Brendon tells himself it doesn’t matter anyway.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“Sing it.”

“Huh?”

“Sing it, Brendon. Sing it pretty,” Ryan says, the ghost of a smile gracing his saliva-polished lips. It’s just Brendon’s imagination the way the moonlight makes them gleam.

“Okay,” Brendon sighs. Ryan really smiles, no ghosting or teasing, and makes a perfect D.

Brendon sings.

*

Breathless, Brendon falls forward into something warm and life-like.

“Okay,” He pants. “Okay, I found you.”

“Yeah,” Ryan pants back. Brendon feels around. The buttons on Ryan’s shirt, the curve of his shoulders. Brendon hangs on them for balance while he catches his breath.

“Yeah, you found me,” Ryan repeats, laughing and squirming free from Brendon’s grasp. Brendon feels round the now empty space, but Ryan is gone.

“Hey! I found you though! This isn’t funny, Ross!”

“Dude, chill out,” Ryan replies. The voice comes from just behind Brendon, and he turns. All he sees is black, just like before.

“I can has light, now?” Brendon quirks in a childlike tone. He can practically here Ryan’s eyes rolling.

“Oh my God,” Ryan says. “Grow up.”

“Says the guy who just made me chase him around in the dark.”

“That was fun,” Ryan defends.

Before Brendon can reply, he’s being pulled forward by one arm until he can feel Ryan right in front of him, so close Ryan’s breath falls against his face when he talks.

“So, hi,” Brendon says. “Are there even any lights in here at all?”

Ryan grabs Brendon’s hand violently, bringing it up to feel along a brick wall beside them. “Grow up,” Ryan repeats.

Ryan stops their hands on what can only be described as a panel. It feels like a school fire-alarm that Brendon was never allowed to touch. It feels forbidden and magical. Or maybe it’s Ryan’s hand that makes it forbidden and magical, because really it’s kind of ridiculous to feel this way about a metal handle on the wall.

But it’s probably also kind of ridiculous to feel this way about Ryan’s hand.

“What is it?” Brendon asks.

“Pull it,” Ryan counters.

Brendon almost does.

“Wait, this is a trick.

“No, I swear it. Just pull it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Ouch, Brendon, that hurt.”

“You pull it.”

“Alright, but you have ruined you’re chance. Let there be light!”

And as condescendingly terrible as it is, there was light.

Brendon’s eyes adjust, and he observes his surroundings. They’re on a platform. A stage. Their stage.

“Is this…?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“How many…?”

“Two thousand.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Brendon confirms, voice shaking over the syllables. He closes his eyes and breaths. “Two thousand.”

He can’t be getting nervous. Not now.

“Hey,” Ryan whispers, putting a hand on Brendon’s shoulder soothingly. “Are you okay?”

“Uhm, yeah, I just – two thousand,” Brendon breathes.

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. “Hey, look at me.”

Brendon does.

“You shouldn’t be nervous,” he says, hand sliding down from Brendon’s shoulder and lingering on his forearm. “There’s no reason for you to be nervous.”

Brendon laughs, quick and sharp.

“I’m serious, Brendon. The crowd is going to love you,” Ryan assures.

Brendon looks out into the open space where the audience will eventually pool; imagines how similar it is to an ocean and wonders if he’ll ever get lost in it.

“But what if I mess up?”

“It doesn’t matter, you won’t mess up.” Ryan’s hand slips into Brendon’s and he laces their fingers. Brendon pretends it’s no big deal.

“But what if I do?!”

“You won’t. You’re perfect.”

But this, he can’t ignore. He can’t pretend this isn’t a big deal because Ryan just called him perfect.

“What?”

“I mean, you’ll be perfect. I didn’t—you’re not going to mess up, is all.”

“Uh-huh,” he can feel his mouth pulling into a smile.

“I mean, it’s not like you’re not – what I’m saying is – I’m not. You’re not –”

Brendon steps forward, splays his hands across Ryan’s chest and breathes in deep. “You know, I think you’re perfect too, Ryan Ross.”

Ryan surges forward then, their lips colliding in awkward clumsiness, all desperate teeth and lips. Brendon’s hands find Ryan’s hips and bring him closer, and he doesn’t whether he meant to or not, but Ryan pulls the switch, and the darkness swallows the fear.

He tastes sweet, like cinnamon and strawberries.

That, Brendon thinks, also could have been the beginning. But he’s willing to bet that it wasn’t.

*

Brendon’s voice dies with the last note Ryan plays, and his companion doesn’t wait a moment before pushing at Brendon’s shoulder and positively gaping.

“You’re voice,” Ryan says, completely awestruck. “Is amazing.”

“No, it’s not,” Brendon protests. He can feel the blush creeping up his neck, chasing away the ache of a migraine that was just beginning to form from the amount of alcohol he’d consumed earlier. Speaking of which, they should probably look for Spencer soon.

“Yeah, it is. Don’t be stupid. Why didn’t you mention to any of us before that you could sing?” he asks giddily. Brendon can’t know for sure, but he’s almost certain Ryan’s smile is genuine.

“Brent told me it would make you mad. He told me I shouldn’t say anything,”

“Brent is really a dick. Why is he still in this band,” Ryan states more to himself than to Brendon. Brendon laughs anyway.

“But seriously, you should sing for good.”

“What?” Brendon asks, confused.

“You should be the lead singer, not me.”

“Ryan—” Brendon begins.

“No, really, Brendon. I suck at singing. You are amazing. I’m not going to be held back because you’re too frugal to accept the position. You’re the lead singer now, and that’s final,” Ryan nods and strikes a perfect C chord, as if to prove his point.

“That sounded perfect,” Brendon thinks out loud.

“Yeah, well. It had a purpose.”

Brendon smiles. “You know, I always thought Will Scarlet was the most attractive of the Merry Men,” he says. Then, he can’t believe he’s said it out loud.

Ryan blushes and looks away.

“Really though. That was beautiful, Brendon.”

You’re beautiful, Brendon thinks. But he doesn’t dare say it out loud.

*

“Scarlet,” Brendon says. “We should name her Scarlett.”

Only when he sees Ryan’s eyes widen with shock does he realize he’s said it out loud.

“You…remember that?” Ryan whispers.

Brendon thinks, How could I forget?

*

“No,” Brendon says, standing up and shaking his head. “No, this is all wrong. You can’t – you can’t just do things like that!” he shouts. Spencer is regarding him with concern. Jon looks shocked. Ryan looks confused and wide-eyed. Brendon doesn’t want to yell. He knows how Ryan feels about yelling. But this just cannot happen.

“Brendon, calm down. I don’t see what the big deal is—” Jon begins.

“Well it is a big deal! I’m the singer, okay? The singer sings. It’s not like I just go up to Spencer and go ‘Hey, I think for this next song, I should play the drums!’ Just like Jon doesn’t. Just like Ryan doesn’t play bass. Just like Spencer doesn’t play guitar. It’s just not how things go and you can’t just change it!” Brendon rants.

“Brendon—” Spencer calls after him, but it’s too late. He’s not sticking around any longer. He pretends it doesn’t hurt that Ryan didn’t say anything. Ryan didn’t try to stop him and it was Ryan’s fucking idea in the first place.

He pretends he isn’t scared of the future.

He knows he can only hide out in the back lounge for so long before someone comes looking for him, and he’s not surprised when he hears the door creak behind him.

“Go away Spencer. I’m done with this conversation.”

“Hey,” Ryan voice says. Part of Brendon thinks it’s about time. Another part wishes he would fuck off already.

(The last part wants Ryan to just come and snuggle close forever and never let go, but Brendon’s had enough practice telling that part to shut up that it isn’t so much a problem anymore.)

Kind of.

He stiffens when he feels the couch sink behind him.

“Brendon, I’m sorry.”

Brendon doesn’t say anything.

“I just don’t understand,” Ryan continues with a defeated sigh. “It was just as proposition. You’re acting like a real jerk. I just want to sing one song.”

“Yeah but,” Brendon pulls himself up into a sitting position and turns around to face Ryan. “If you sing, and they like you, which they will because I mean, you’re Ryan Ross and you’re everything that’s good and beautiful and perfect,” he pauses for breath. “Then you won’t need me anymore. I already taught you how to play piano, I don’t write good lyrics. I’m just the singer. If you sing, you won’t need me anymore.”

“Brendon, that’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not. Stop acting like it is. You know it. I’m just the front man. My only purpose was to tell the world what you couldn’t. And if you can do that yourself, you won’t need me anymore.”

“Brendon,” Ryan begins. “I will always need you. Even if I can sing, that doesn’t mean I want to. I don’t ever want to hear anybody but you sing my words. It’s always been that way and it will always stay that way. I’d never let you leave, even if you wanted to,” he smiles. And then, Brendon was so stupid that he smiled back. He believed.

“Promise me,” he says, leaning forward to bury his head it his boyfriend’s neck. Ryan’s hands find his hair and rest there, stroking soothing circles into the locks.

“I promise.”

*

He promised.

There’s a knock on the door and Brendon lifts himself from the couch to answer it. His legs are stiff and they ache from being folded underneath his body weight for so long. He continues towards the door. When he opens it, there are three containers of Chinese food and a vase of daises with a note attached.

Brendon throws the note away without reading it and puts the flowers on the floor beside the couch.

Then, he eats.

And he may not know for sure how it started. But he does know it hasn’t stopped. And maybe it will one day, but he’s willing to bet that it won’t.

Because, Brendon thinks, once you fall in love, it’s like falling into a deep pit you can’t crawl out of.

And everyone disappears. No matter who loves them.


End file.
